


discreet packaging

by tropicalcap



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky doesn't trust online sex shops, Dildos, Dildos are great, Is this considered crack?, M/M, Mutual dildo holding, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Pining if you squint, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Sex Toys, Sex never actually happens, Shy Bucky Barnes, This Is STUPID, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 02:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17540915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tropicalcap/pseuds/tropicalcap
Summary: Point is, Bucky’s twenty-eight years old and he’s been single for the last three of them. He’s tired of going out to bars and clubs to get laid, and dating apps are a fucking waste of time anyway. He just wants easy access to free, effortless dick, and buying a dildo sounds like the best way to get it.Or the one with the dildo in a plastic bag.





	discreet packaging

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this post](http://theblackd4hlia.tumblr.com/post/182023978752/lmaooooooooo-no-but-seriously-one-time-i-ordered).
> 
> I don't know why I wrote this, my brain did this weird thing where it had an idea and just fucking ran with it. Smutty part two might happen at some point in the future. Might.
> 
> Thank you to [Maggie](https://evanstarff.tumblr.com) for betaing and letting me have my dumbass fun.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Bucky goes pink under Natasha’s amused gaze. Looking at the steam billowing from his hot chocolate is less embarrassing than this entire conversation.

“Let me get this straight,” she’s smiling now, and Bucky really wants to wipe it off her face. With his fist, if he wasn't so afraid of her. “You, James Buchanan Barnes, are scared of going to a sex shop?”

“Could you not be so loud?” Bucky glances furtively around, but the people around them don’t pay them any attention, too busy enjoying the free coffee shop WiFi and warm environment, a sharp contrast to the frozen tundra of New York City outside.

“Don’t blame me,” Natasha shrugs. “I’m just wondering how you got that reputation during college, but your ears go pink when I say the word _dildo_.”

Bucky sighs.

Yes, he had a bit of a reputation during college, but those days are long behind him right now. Also, he only got that reputation because freshmen and sophomore college kids are still very fucking immature and run their mouths when they shouldn’t.

Bucky had a mediocre sex life during college, it wasn’t anything to write home about, nor was it as prolific as those rumors in his old “friend” group made it seem. He ended up going to bed with one or two guys he wasn’t supposed to, and suddenly he was branded with a very awful slur he doesn’t like to dwell on too much.

Still, sex is great! Sex is fun! And now that he’s in his late twenties, sex is infinite times better than it was back when he lived in a dorm the size of a fucking closet.

Still, it doesn’t mean he wants to talk about his sexual preferences with a sales clerk while surrounded by plastic dicks.

“I’m not scared,” he mumbles, stirring the last bit of whipped cream into his chocolate. “I just don’t want to talk to anyone about what dick I like best.”

Natasha watches him for a long, silent while.

Bucky squirms in his seat. He’s very open about sex, at least with those close to him— both Nat and Clint have been subject to one too many play-by-plays of his most memorable one night stands, much to Clint’s chagrin. Still, he’s never had Natasha make such a big deal about anything sex-related before. This silent-and-calculating Nat is a new one, at least when it comes to dick preferences.

“Why don’t you just order one?”

“Online?” Bucky asks, feeling stupid. He’s considered it before, but he’s also considered that anyone handling his mail would know he ordered a plastic dick.

He’d rather save himself the embarrassment.

“I know a site,” Natasha explains, taking a sip from her coffee. She’d neglected it as soon as Bucky started talking about his aversion to sex shops. It’s probably cold now, blech. “They’re pretty reliable – and they have every toy imaginable.”

“I’d rather not have the people handling my mail know I ordered a dick in a box, thanks,” Bucky snorts. “How do I know they’re not going to put a sticker on it that says _‘fake genitals inside, handle with care’_ or some bullshit like that?”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “They’re not going to do that, doofus. They send it in a brown box under a second company name. Nobody’s going to know what’s inside.”

Bucky gnaws at his bottom lip in consideration.

On the one hand, he could get over his irrational embarrassment and just go to a shop far enough away from the city where nobody knows him. He could see the product and ask any questions about it, maybe even get some assistance from a clerk — do sex shops even _have_ those? — in choosing the best toy for him. That sounds good.

On the other hand, he could spend an hour browsing a website and looking at reviews from people that have actually bought the toys and aren’t trying to push a sale on him. He wouldn't even have to leave to comfort of his home for that one.

Point is, Bucky’s twenty-eight years old and he’s been single for the last three of them. He’s tired of going out to bars and clubs to get laid, and dating apps are a fucking waste of time anyway. He just wants easy access to free, effortless dick, and buying a dildo sounds like the best way to get it.

“What’s the site?” He sighs.

There's a ping on his phone and Nat grins.

Bucky ignores her smug face for the rest of the day.

 

*****

 

The day New York City doesn’t suffer a winter where it makes Bucky want to die will be a good day.

His hair is wet, his coat obviously weighs a hundred pounds, _because it’s also wet_. Bucky has never hated snow as much as he does now. He walks into his building, grateful for the utilities payments he makes because _yes, heat_.

After a quick pit stop at his apartment to get rid of his shoes and change into sweats and a t-shirt, he gathers his laundry and goes to the basement. He’s grateful to find it empty, and sets up a washing machine with his clothes before making his way back upstairs.

Bucky spends his time cleaning up and making dinner, trying very hard to ignore the speech bubble in his phone. The web address in Nat's message is almost mocking him, and he decides that tonight probably won’t be the night he ventures into the world of online sex toy shopping.

When the timer on his phone goes off, he snatches some quarters out of his coin jar and sets off down the stairs once more. This time, when he walks into the basement laundry room, there’s someone there.

Well, not someone— _Steve Rogers_. Also known as the protagonist in most-slash- _all_ of Bucky’s wet dreams for the past eight months. Also maybe the reason why he hasn’t been able to get laid in almost two months.

“Buck, hey,” Steve smiles when he gets a glimpse of him standing at the door. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yeah,” Bucky clears his throat, because _Steve has a_ _nickname for his nickname_. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since he first started calling him that, it always feels like the first time. “Been busy with work and stuff.”

Steve nods at that, turning to a pile of clothes in front of him.

Bucky walks towards the washers, trying not to stare at Steve too much. As he loads his wet clothes into the dryer, he realizes he’s not trying nearly hard enough and succumbs to ogling the blonde beefcake.

Steve looks like he’s going to the gym, body clad in a tight workout shirt that sticks to every part of his sinful torso, the fabric stretching tight over his chest and biceps. The sweatpants he’s wearing are loose enough, though Bucky can still see the curve of his ass perfectly, and— that’s not an image he needs to think about right now.

“How have you been?” Bucky asks instead, because he’s still digging clothes out of the washer and Steve’s still folding his own things. And maybe he wants to keep talking to Steve.

“Also very busy,” Steve chuckles. “Been on call for the past week, but I finally got rotated off and have a few days to help Ma out here and sleep more than two hours.”

“You gonna trade the scrubs for overalls, then?” Bucky’s bad at flirting, but he’s _trying_. “Gonna get your hands dirty, fixing the pipes and all that?”

Bucky also might be trying to conjure some images in his head that he certainly doesn’t need, but he wants. Jesus Christ, does he _want_.

“I was thinking more like delivering mail,” Steve says, and Bucky sticks his head out of the washer for long enough to see a faint pink dusting his cheeks. “I only look like I know how to fix things.”

Steve certainly does look like he knows how to fix things. That body looks like it came straight out of the — admittedly, revealing — construction worker calendar Bucky purchased when he was fifteen years old and growing into his sexuality.

Steve’s built like a brick shithouse and he looks like he could _build_ a brick shithouse in a day. As the landlord’s son, Bucky suspected he’d be doing some repairs to the building when needed, but then he called Sarah Rogers because his sink was leaking and he didn’t know what to do, and Sarah fucking Rogers fixed it herself.

(Bucky wants to be like her in the future, truly.)

“Well, anything you can take off her to-do list is good,” Bucky says, shutting the door to the dryer and popping the appropriate amount of quarters in before starting it. “Your mom hates asking for help.”

“You can say that again,” Steve mutters.

Bucky snorts at that, setting another timer on his phone to come back and get his clothes once they’ve dried. He walks over to the counter where Steve’s folding his clothes, sees the pile has gotten smaller since he came in. He leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest as he watches the blonde man work.

A pleasant silence follows. Bucky doesn’t want to leave, but Steve’s almost done folding his clothes and Bucky’s grasping at topics of conversation in his mind that don’t have anything to do with plastic dicks, or clothes, or _Steve_ and—

“You wanna come over later?” Steve asks, and Bucky’s mouth runs dry. “Maybe we can catch up, have a beer or two.”

Steve looks hopeful, hands fiddling with the hem of a t-shirt he’s halfway into folding.

It’s not the first time he’s extended an invitation to hang out. Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time they spent time together aside from run-ins in the building— Steve lives here, and he and Bucky have enough in common to have spent time watching movies or shows together, sharing dinner or whatever alcohol they have in their kitchen.

Still, Bucky’s mind is still reeling from his earlier conversation with Natasha, and Steve is looking fucking _edible_ in those workout clothes. He’s not entirely sure his head will be clear enough to not do something stupid when he and Steve are alone behind closed doors.

“Can I raincheck on that?” Bucky’s contemplating death right now, because _wow_. What an opportunity to pass up. “I’m super tired from work, just wanna sleep, really.”

_Also, I’ve had a hard-on for the last fifteen minutes and I don’t want you to see that unless you’re gonna do something about it. Will you p l e a s e do something about it?_

“I get it,” Steve smiles and _fuck_ Bucky just wants to kiss it the fuck off. “Another time, then.”

Bucky smiles apologetically, then scurries out of the room, cheeks flaming. So much for not wanting to leave.

He barely makes it through his apartment door before tugging his pants off. He brings himself off right in his foyer, a hand tight on his dick and teeth biting painfully at his wrist to keep the noise down.

His clothes stay in the dryer until the morning.

 

*****

 

Two days later, Bucky’s sitting on the couch with his computer in his lap, a glass of wine by his side. He’s glad for the liquid courage as he hits _enter_ on the website age confirmation page, because then he’s met with dicks of all colors, sizes and materials.

Bucky goes through half a wine bottle while browsing, and ends up choosing a sizeable, but not intimidating, silicone dildo in blue.

He refuses to acknowledge any connection of the color and a certain someone’s eyes.

That would be creepy.

 

*****

 

It takes three days for the item to arrive. Bucky’s only been chewing his nails off for the past two and a half. The thought that he _ordered a sex toy online_ doesn’t leave him alone for one second, and it’s ridiculous how much he thinks about it.

He’s not the first man to do this. He’s not the only man to do this either— the fucking website boasted that they’d served _one million customers worldwide!_ So really, there’s no reason for him to feel so apprehensive.

The third day, Bucky is on edge from the moment he wakes up. He ends up chewing through the skin of his bottom lip during the workday, thinking about having to look at sweet old Sarah Rogers in the face while she hands him a box that contains a very fake, very large, and very unrealistically-colored penis.

He’ll have to look at sweet old Sarah Rogers in the face — who Bucky’s pretty sure is a God-fearing woman — denying every thought in his mind telling him he’s going to imagine the dick in the box is _her son’s dick_ when he uses it.

(You know, like a liar.)

Bucky walks the steps up to his building in a daze. He does his after-work routine slower than usual, taking his sweet time in the shower and actually blow drying his hair before he goes down to the basement. He never does that.

He pulls on the most nondescript sweats and hoodie combo he can find in his closet— gray and plain, just like him. There’s no hidden sexual desires going on here, no ma’am.

Walking down the steps to the basement, he goes over his plan of escape just to keep himself busy. He’s going to walk into the mailroom, greet Sarah like he always does and remind her of his mailbox number. He’s going to snatch the box out of her hands and not even look at it, then hightail it to his apartment and lock himself in his bedroom before he dares open it.

Bucky’s so busy going over the plan, that he doesn’t realize Sarah isn’t the one behind the counter in the mailroom. When he realizes it’s her larger, attractive, blonde beefcake of a son, it’s too late.

“Buck!” Steve says, entirely too loud and too relieved, and Bucky’s dying right now. “You here to keep me company?”

“Uhh…” Bucky’s mouth makes a sound without his permission, and _Bucky’s dying right now_. “I’m here to pick up some mail?”

Steve chuckles. “Well, that _is_ what you do in a mailroom. Though I’m a bit disappointed that’s the only reason you’re here.”

Bucky’s brain doesn’t register the flirting until Steve’s smile has dimmed and he’s stepped to the backroom, where the mailboxes are. He’s too busy having a small crisis, debating on if he _really_ needs to pick up the box today, because Steve’s going to want to strike up a conversation _while Bucky’s holding a plastic dick in a box_ — his heart won’t be able to handle it. He’ll die.

He’s about to call out to Steve, tell him that he got the shipping date wrong for the package, but his brain has barely processed the scene to even make a single articulate noise. Instead, he makes more of the squeak of a hiccuping meerkat, because there is Steve Rogers, holding what very obviously looks like a penis. Wrapped in a black plastic bag.

_Hello, you’ve reached the voicemail of once-living James Barnes. Please leave a message, and he’ll contact you from the afterlife._

Bucky's soul has left his body.

“I believe this is yours,” Steve sounds unsure and slightly humored, if the little quirk in his lips is anything to go by.

“I don’t -,” _fuck_ , what is he even supposed to say!?

_This isn’t mine, I think someone’s playing a prank on me._

_I’m actually here to pick up a new encyclopedia about dinosaurs. Yes, I like to study them in my free time, I’m that smart._

_It’s actually for my friend, she just put in my address by mistake._

_My friend's idea of a prank. Obviously._

Bucky’s brain is all white noise at the moment. His face is burning so much he’s only slightly sure the skin is going to melt off at one point, and Steve’s smug expression — and the fact that _he’s still holding the dildo in front of Bucky’s face_ — isn’t doing anything to help.

“‘S impressive, if you ask me,” Steve shrugs, like Bucky isn’t turning into a puddle of whatever-the-fuck right in front of him. _Why is Steve still talking?_ “Can’t imagine taking one this big.”

Bucky’s going to die right here. _Death by dildo (and smug blonde bastard)_ , his gravestone will read.

“I’m - thanks,” what the _fuck_ kind of answer is that, Barnes!? He needs to get out of here and never leave his apartment again. “I’m just gonna -”

Bucky goes to grab for the dildo — fuck, what even is his life, really? — but the shaft isn’t long enough for both his and Steve’s hands to hold onto. He ends up having to grab the balls — fucking _kill him now_ — to take it from Steve. The thing fucking _wiggles_ as it passes from hand to hand, and Bucky’s already picking out the flowers for his funeral in his mind.

_Discreet packaging, my ass_.

He turns to leave without saying goodbye, because really, Bucky's soul has already arrived in the afterlife where he's reliving this moment for all eternity – what's a goodbye going to add anyway.

_Goodbye, thanks for keeping my dick warm?_

The dildo is still very real and very much in his hands as he starts to walk out of the mailroom, but Steve’s voice stops him dead in his tracks before he makes it out the door.

“If you ever need help with that,” Steve gestures towards Bucky’s hand like he’s holding a cellphone he doesn’t know how to use instead of a plastic dick. “We still haven’t had that beer.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr](https://tropicalcap.tumblr.com)!


End file.
